The Sniper
Chapter 1
The Vicious Game
(Re-make of the famous short story 'The Sniper' by Liam O'Flaherty into a more 'ponified' version)
The long June twilight faded into night. Dodge City enveloped in darkness but for the dim light of the moon that shone through fleecy clouds, casting a pale light as of approaching dawn over the streets and the dark waters of the Dodge River. Here and there through the city, machine guns and rifles broke the silence of the night, spasmodically, like dogs barking on lone farms. Republicans and Free Staters were waging a civil war.
On a rooftop near the Dodge City National Bridge, a Republican sniper lay watching. Beside him lay his rifle, specially made for ponies, and over his shoulders was slung a pair of field glasses. His face was the face of a student, thin and ascetic, but his eyes had the cold gleam of a fanatic. They were deep and thoughtful, the eyes of a pony who is used to looking at death.
He was eating a hay sandwich hungrily. He had eaten nothing since morning. He had been to excited to eat. He finished the sandwich, and, taking a flask of whiskey from his pocket, he took a short draft. Then he returned the flask to his pocket. He paused for a moment, considering whether he should risk a smoke. It was very dangerous. The flash might be seen in the darkness, and there were enemies watching. He decided to take the risk. Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match, inhaled the smoke hurriedly, and put out the light. Almost immediately, a bullet flattened itself against the parapet of the roof. The sniper took another whiff and put out the cigarette. Then she swore softly and crawled away to the left.
Cautiously he raised himself and peered over the parapet. There was a flash and a bullet whizzed over his dark mane. He dropped immediately. He had seen the flash. It came from the opposite side of the dirt road. He rolled over to the roof to a chimney stack in the rear and slowly drew himself up behind it, until his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. There was nothing to be seen…just the dim outline of the opposite housetop against the blue sky. His enemy was under cover. Just then an armored car came across the bridge and advanced slowly up the road. It stopped on the opposite side of the road, fifty yards ahead. The sniper could hear the dull panting of the small motor. His heart beat faster…it was an enemy car. He wanted to fire but he knew it was useless. His bullets would never pierce the steel that covered the gray monster.
Then round the corner of a side street came a mare, her head covered by a tattered shawl. She began to talk to the stallion in the turret of the car. She was pointing, with her hoof, to the roof where the sniper lay. An informer.
The turret opened. A pony’s head and hooves appeared, looking toward the sniper. The sniper raised his rifle and fired. The head fell heavily on the turret wall. The mare darted toward the side road. The sniper fired again. The mare whirled around and fell with a shriek into the gutter.
Suddenly from the opposite roof a shot rang out and the sniper dropped his rifle with a curse. The rifle clattered to the roof. The sniper thought the noise would wake the dead. He stopped to pick the rifle up. He couldn’t lift it. His forearm was dead. ‘’I’m hit,’’ he muttered.
Dropping flat onto the roof, she crawled back to the parapet. With her left hoof she felt the injured right forearm. The blood was oozing through her coat. There was no pain—just a deadened sensation, as if the leg had been cut off.
Quickly he drew his knife from his pocket, opened it on the breastwork of the parapet, and ripped open the sleeve. There was a small hole where the bullet had entered. On the other side there was no hole. The bullet had lodged in the bone. It must have fractured it. He bent the leg below the wound. The forearm bent back easily. He ground his teeth to overcome the pain.
Then taking out his field dressing, he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of the iodine bottle and let the bitter fluid drip into the wound. A paroxysm of pain swept through him. He placed the cotton wadding over it. He tied the ends with his teeth.
Then he lay still against the parapet, and, closing his eyes, he made an effort of will to overcome the pain.
In the road beneath all was still. The armored car had retired speedily over the bridge, with the machine gunner’s head hanging lifeless over the turret. The mare’s corpse lay still in the gutter.
The sniper lay still for a long time nursing his wounded forearm and planning escape. Morning must not find him wounded on the roof. The enemy on the opposite roof covered his escape. He must kill that enemy and he could not use his rifle. He had only a small revolver to do it. Then he thought of a plan.
Taking off his cap, he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he pushed the rifle slowly upward the parapet, until the cap was visible from the opposite side of the road. Almost immediately there was a report, and a bullet pierced the center of the cap. The sniper slanted the rifle forward. The cap slipped down into the road. Then catching the rifle in the middle, the sniper dropped his left hoof over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a few moments he let the rifle drop to the road. Then he sank to the roof, dragging his hoof with him.
Crawling quickly to the left, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His trick had succeeded. The other sniper, seeing the cap and rifle fall, thought that he killed his prey. He was now standing before a row of chimney pots, looking across, with his head silhouetted against the western sky.
The Republican sniper smiled and lifted her revolver above the edge of the parapet. The distance was about fifty yards…a hard shot in the dim light, and his right forearm was paining him like a thousand devils. He took a steady aim. His hoof trembled with eagerness. Pressing his lips together, he took a deep breath through his nostrils and fired. He was almost deafened with the loud noise and his hoof shook with the recoil.
Then when the smoke cleared he peered across and uttered a cry of joy. His enemy had been hit. He was reeling over the parapet in his death agony. He struggled to keep his hooves, but he was slowly falling forward, as if in a dream. The rifle fell from his grasp, hit the parapet, fell over, bounded off the pole of a barber’s shop beneath and then clattered on the road.
Then the dying pony on the roof crumpled and fell forward. The body turned over and over in space and hit the ground with a dull thud.
The sniper looked at his enemy falling and shuddered. The lust of battle died in him. He became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in the beads on his forehead. Weakened by his wound and the long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he revolted from the sight of the shattered mass of his dead enemy. His teeth chattered, he began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everypony.
He looked at the smoking revolver on his hoof, and with an oath, he hurled it to the roof at his hooves. The revolver went off with the concussion and the bullet whizzed past the sniper’s head. He was frightened back to his senses by the shock. His nerves steadied. The cloud of fear scattered from his mind and he laughed.
Taking the whiskey flask from his pocket, he emptied it at a draft. He felt reckless under the influence of the spirit. He decided to leave the roof now and look for his company commander, to report. Everywhere around was quiet. There was not much danger in going through the streets. He picked up his revolver and put it in her pocket. Then he crawled down through the skylight to the house underneath.
When the sniper reached the laneway on the street level, he felt a sudden curiosity as to the identity of the enemy sniper whom he had killed. He decided that he was a good shot, whomever he was. He wondered did he know him. Perhaps he had been in his own company before the split in the army. He decided to risk going over to have a look on him. He peered around the corner into the dirt road. In the upper part of the road there was heavy firing, but around here was all quiet.
The sniper dashed across the street. A machine gun tore up the ground around him with a hail of bullets, but he escaped. He threw himself face downward beside the corpse. The machine gun stopped. Then the sniper turned over the dead body and looked into his brother’s face.
